


Room at the Top

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: Valerie and Lucille spend a rainy afternoon off together at Nonnatus.“Her eyes are full of questions."
Relationships: Lucille Anderson/Valerie Dyer
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Room at the Top

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassiopeiasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiasara/gifts).



> Follows canon. Includes a brief reference to S9 events, but is otherwise spoiler free. A little something for @cassiopeiasara that touches on some ideas we've been discussing for a little while, and touches on some other headcanon bits I’ve wanted to explore. This is a glimpse into a world I intended to make much bigger, but I wanted to share it because we all need a little something right now, and I really like what it gets across. Hope you will too. Thank you as always to @pirateboots and @serenagaywaterford for their editing and advice. Title from the 1959 Jack Clayton film of the same name.

_“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.”  
_– Jane Austen, _Persuasion_.

***

“That puts pay to our plans then.”

You glance up from your book to see Lucille at the window, sighing deeply as she looks out at the rain. Then, she turns to you again, seeming rather crestfallen. It’s been hammering on the roof for the last hour or so, and you’d hoped it would let up, but there’s little chance of that now. Reading was just meant to pass the time and give you something to focus on, but truth be told, you haven’t really been paying much attention to the words on the page, hoping against hope that somehow, the weather would turn, and the day wouldn’t be a waste.

No such luck. No amount of glaring at the increasingly dark sky would make the sun come out. If you could’ve achieved it on sheer force of will, there would’ve been a clear blue sky after ten minutes.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had time off together, and now it’s a washout. Not exactly what you’d both been hoping for. All dressed up and nowhere to go, as they say.

“There is such a thing as an umbrella you know,” you offer, with a little smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“Very funny, but I think if we put one up in that,” she begins, pointing back toward the window, “you’d fly off like Mary Poppins!”

You chuckle at the image. “Just be glad you aren’t out in it like Trixie!” you remind her, as she comes closer.

There it is, that smile. The one only you get to see. It happens a lot in this room.

“Goodness, I know,” she replies with a soft sigh, and she’s back on the bed sitting next to you again, both leaning back against the headboard.

You study her for a moment, not really sure what to say, because that smile has gone as quick as it came. Something’s bothering her, you can tell.

All those plans – an afternoon matinee, fish and chips on the walk back – don’t seem to matter. It doesn’t even matter that you’re dressed to go out, because she’s here with you.

You’re not sure when it happened exactly, but you’ve come to think of the attic room as yours – yours and Lucille’s that is. Months ago now, when all you did was bury yourself in work to numb your grief, Sister Julienne asked you to help ready it for any new guests after Dr McNulty left. _“Soon have it ship shape, Sister,”_ you’d said, brightly, fully expecting to do the task alone, welcoming the distraction of work and the opportunity to be useful. Before you could so much as unfurl the new bedsheet, Lucille was there, waiting to help. _“Let me help.”_

With three words, everything changed and nothing changed at all.

After that, any time you could, you’d both come up here together, just on your days off, and the odd night off. You’d sit and talk, or sit and read, just like you have been this afternoon. On your bad days, you’d sit saying nothing at all, happy in each other’s company when everyone else at Nonnatus has been desperate to fill the silence and make you feel better, she’d be the one to stay, not needing to say anything at all. Silence is a balm in its own way, as soothing as holding you when you’d finally break down and cry. On the good days – and there are many more of those now – you’d listen to records on an old Dansette Fred you found and dance with her like fools, teaching her the dances her mother would never let her learn. _“Thick as thieves you two, up here_ ,” Phyllis said once, popping her head round to tell Lucille about one of her ladies, Mrs Baker, going into labour. It felt like you’d been caught, both sat together, much as you are now. You shudder to think what she would’ve said had she come in a few minutes earlier when you were lying on the bed, facing each other, your mouth perilously close to hers.

You almost kissed. _Almost_.

All that time alone made it easier to forget where you were, who might find you. All that time alone made you careless and giddy. It let you think about futures you never imagined before. It let you say them out loud, creating evermore elaborate plans with each other. Futures beyond Nonnatus, but never without her. Some futures seemed entirely fanciful, like travelling with her to Jamaica to see her family again; Spain, Paris or Italy perhaps. Suddenly, seeing the world mattered again, more than crossing off names on a map, because you had someone to see it with. Her excitement was infectious. Other futures were more mundane, but, equally fanciful, in their own way. A flat together in one of those new high-rises or may. You’d get the bus to work. You’d cook together and have parties. You’d go out dancing in Soho, take Lucille to The Flamingo Club.

No one would ask questions. The answers wouldn’t matter anyway.But, you can’t think about that now. It’s easy to slip away and get lost, but there’s the rain again, and the distant sound of the telephone ringing.

“Lu, are you alright?”

She turns her head slightly to look at you, and it’s enough to make you put down your book.

“Don’t stop with Mr Frost on account of me,” she says, and you can tell she’s pretending to be fine for your benefit.

You’re both incredibly good at faking smiles, it seems.

“I didn’t come in here to read Robert _bloody_ Frost,” you give her a gentle dig in the ribs. “I came here to spend time with you.”

She looks at you for a long time before she speaks. “I know.” It’s soft, and she’s so close you can feel her breath on your cheek. “I did say you could borrow any book.” She’s teasing you a little now, and she looks brighter again. It’s her fault of course, the way she talks about books, the poems and passages she loves so; it just makes you want to read them.

This is the dance you do now. It has steps of another kind. Steps that you’re still learning. You can see it in her eyes now, in ways you didn’t before. It’s a question. A longing. A confession. Less and less your wishful thinking and more your unspoken truth. Right there, _“Betwixt and between”_ as Frost would say. You put the book on the bedside table, next to your cigarettes.

Wordlessly, you move so you’re facing each other again, heads propped on the pillows. It’s your new default. You always end up this way, no matter how you start, even if you’re perched on the windowsill smoking and Lucille is sitting on the bed alone. You gravitate, naturally.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you reach out, gently turning her crucifix so the chain doesn’t break.

She used to flinch when you did that, with the closeness of it and the feeling of intrusion. Now, it’s different. Her hand covers yours and she leaves it there a moment before letting go.

“You’ll think I’m being silly.”

“Never,” you reply, firmly, not looking away. It’s a risk, but you brush your hand gently against her cheek.

Little moments like this have been happening more often lately. Touches. Tests. Holding hands, kisses on the cheek and the corner of the mouth. Always here in this room. Special. Secret. The good kind of secret.

Her only response is a soft sigh when your hand falls away again.

She moves that bit closer, and when she speaks, it’s almost a whisper. “Whenever I imagined what England would be like,” she pauses, corrects herself. “London, I mean,” You nod and she continues. “It was never this.”

“Cold, and always rainin’ apart from two weeks in August when it’s roastin’ and everyone complains!”

She laughs a little, but it fades quickly. “That’s not what I mean, it’s not …” she tails off, “not what I expected.”

“No?’

“ _You’re_ not …” she qualifies, and it feels significant.

“Neither are you.” The reply slips out before you realise.

“They call Mandeville the most English town in Jamaica, and in some ways, it is, but in others, it’s so different,’ she sighs, and you wonder what she’s not saying. “I used to imagine all these things about England from hearing stories or reading things.” You nod, urging for her to continue. Whenever she talks like this, it’s brief, and you know it's because she doesn’t want to let homesickness creep back in. “You know, village greens, fetes, tea and cake, all that.”

Dreams are so rarely close to reality; you hope she’s not disappointed or she regrets taking the risk to leave her friends and family behind. You’ve taken those risks too, but compared to Lucille, yours feel much more calculated.

“And all you got was rain and fish paste sandwiches? Bit of a let down then.”

“Yes and no,” her smile widens a little. “Just … different.”

“Never thought you’d be one for a saveloy and chips?” you reply, deflecting. The underlying seriousness in her voice is making you anxious. Uncomfortable even, like you’re crossing some sort of invisible line or a point of no return.

“Something like that.” Her smile is brighter again. _Beautiful_. It makes you ache. The closeness is too much suddenly, but you have to stay still. You don’t dare move for fear of breaking whatever spell is hanging over you both. “I had all these ideas in my head from Austin, Dickens, Keats. Hope for who I’d meet and what I’d do. The life I’d make” she begins, careful and quiet when she adds “I never thought I’d meet someone like you.”

You feel yourself flush with embarrassment at her words, your heart beginning to pick up.

“Hmm, Baxters we can do, but no luck with any Bennets or Darcys, sorry darlin’,' you tease, trying to lighten the moment, not daring to think about what she might really mean.

You’ve heard variations of this from women before, hushed little declarations in dark corners. You could never commit the same in return. You never really knew why.

Until now.

It needed the right woman to say them. It needed to be Lucille.

“I quite like Dyers now,” she reaches out to you, her fingers nervously playing with the belt on your minidress.

Now she’s the teasing one, and you glance down, shy all of a sudden. You can’t bear to look away for long though. She’s never really spoken like this before, it’s always been something you’ve talked around in a limited sort of way. In whispers of another kind.

“I didn’t feel like I belonged, when I first came to England,” she starts again, and it all feels very serious suddenly. “I loved Taunton, the training, and I liked people I worked with, but it never felt like this.”

“Like what?”

Your prompt sounds empty, stupid even, but you need to offer some kind of answer that isn’t daft humour to deflect and push away because you don’t dare think she might feel the same as you. That she lies awake, wondering, _yearning_ , half terrified to want more.

She doesn’t show it often, but people get her down sometimes. It’s been six years, but you know she misses Jamaica more than she’d like to admit. Homesickness comes and goes in waves. Those waves roll more gently, but they’re still there. Even though you know she yearned for adventure like you did, you also know that doesn’t stop you feeling alone, lonely without family.

“Like it does with you.” Her voice is shaky, and she heaves a breath to steady herself.

“ _Lu_ ,” her name is barely a breath.

Her eyes are full of questions.

Your mouth is dry suddenly. If you were smarter, braver, you’d leave now, before you say words you can’t take back. Restraint. Resolve. Before you do something you shouldn’t. Except, that’s (another) lie. She occupies your mind. She keeps you awake turning over conversations like this one. Dreamed of them too.

“I feel like I belong now, here, with you. _Because_ of you,” her eyes shine with tears. “It’s home.”

You let out a sigh, somewhere between awe and relief, because you felt that way for so long now. She’s exactly the kind of person you’ve always wanted as a friend. She’s become so much more than that. You didn’t want to fall for her. You didn’t want to fall in love, but it was so easy. So blissfully easy you didn’t even realise how much you loved her until now. Any words you might’ve had about it being what anyone would do, or that you just wanted to make her feel at home just drift out of your mind, because she’s moving closer. Before you can find any words at all, she kisses you. Her lips brush softly against yours – a brief curious press, barely anything, before she moves away again.

“I … just …” she stutters out. “I wanted to …”

She doesn’t have words either. Panic flashes briefly across her features.

“It’s OK,” you assure her, gently. “It’s OK,” you repeat, your hands reaching up to frame her face, to soothe and calm.

You close what little distance there is between you, and kiss her again. Slowly, carefully, softly, each kiss a little longer than the last. It says all the things you can’t quite yet. How precious she is to you. How wanted. How loved. She’s not shaking anymore. You stay like that, trading gentle kisses in your too pretty dresses on a bed that isn’t really yours, while the rain batters down on the roof.

Lucille’s right. She’s home now. Another future just became possible.


End file.
